A Wild Skull for Satin (A Boy Who Lived)

And here lies
the best of us;
end of all
the best of me, seppuku child.
Of 1980 and fairgrounds,
a once baby heart filled with jazz
now at threads end.

Full decades lived well
in honesty that cameras could never catch.
Beyond scars and rats
and bony jailbait
but never above,
never holier than darkest sin.

At rest now
from machines and noise,
from unwanted bully banshees
asleep and free,
bloody pulp no more.
A song to end brothers
Game Over...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Twenty Gore/7

Faceless man on the news
staying hard with gratuitous views.

Erotic chapters needling babes of old
wearing guillotine grins as stories fold,

again again, murder gospel sends
the gore chicks into razor trends.

Dames of Hollywood
house of kills,
voyeurs and ghosts
haunt the world for its ills...

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Sunset Ghoulevard

Celebrity smoking
crunching, fiddling
and raging.
Those whiskey cats
are here to stay.
The frittering, fingering
boiling and stuttering
wind up sows,
here to stay
and f**k the armies of slug footed
press ganged kids.

We labour nothing
only to seek a life beyond the vain;
xanax songbirds
who terrorise ambition
and freeze before the sloth cameras.
Autographs and coked whirlwind biographies
become bibles to the unbibled,
botox winos seeking gold
before a soul....

©Steven Francis poems 2014

Poem to Lyric to Music

Time Jangles
And maniac hands of crowds
follow ink slicks
across white sands to fret boards
where the devil lurked in muse shrouds.
Pages glowed in times of man,
grand sorrow, greed and joy
spread like harpies wings.

Dynamic night rain of a senseless breed
they sing and nail their tales of death
to glory beds on foggy shores.
Strum bang jango!
Hail those words and candy chorus
schemed by bands using rebels for their wisdom,
their shotgun anthems lift craggy veils,
and order form from fury...

@Steven Francis poems 2014

Age Old Age

Old age.
I am a young man,
was a young man
filled with brim and stone,
not troubled by the hoardes of death
or chained by unfriendly arthitus.
My new veins greying in wicker chapters
as the pages turn less
and fade from cherry view.

An age old bag of bones
seeping from the lather of youth,
watching new chicks grow
as I wilt and ferment froth
nearing my extiction.
I, who was once in bloom,
replaced by fresher breeds of rabid babes.
content in withered nettles

Chief no more!
Of a venerable vintage,
bless my old testament saddled with its crooked time.
See the girls, how soft they glow
see the boys,
And I, a mean whiskered gentleman riding on
with his antique bag of skin...

©Stteven Francis poems 2014

The Death of One Who Never Was

He or sometimes She
would never feel the salt but still we mourn
as if She or sometimes He
had lived a thousand lives.

All pains lie with Him
or Her,
the bullets and heartache,
ills and poisoned luck.

So here's to you
as tongueless hoardes come mute
to sail heavy, sometimes awkward glances
over thy dark frame in sandy, morphine jaws.
Eyes closed yet alive to clocks
and inches,
rolling to tea and shop fronts
where memoirs dragged by chariots of ages
come to fall under sleepy overtures
and choirs of death.

You,
the friend to skulls
lover of gin gallows and looking to the blind,
you come to a hundred deaths.

@Steven Francis poems 2014

Kingdom A.D.

Digital tides rising from wire headed monks
to prey on tradition and make mockery of Love.
Electric dog awake!
Grand earache of technology attacking from exits and entrances
decieving the pinheads with bare societies ~
a cyber neon clergy of pop ups and empty links.

Proxy kings
(innocence of Gods),
step free of commas and question marks
come join the tabloid tribes...

©Steven Francis poems 2014